


Blatant 8x04 Fixit

by eladrinsane (Clementine19)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #minor braime, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clementine19/pseuds/eladrinsane
Summary: Is what it says on the label. Idiots pining.Fixing whatever fresh hell D&D thought they'd get up to, because 8 seasons of character development and enrichment deserves a payoff.Rating will get more 🌶





	1. 1

“She could have made you happy, for a little while,” Sansa comments, slipping gracefully onto the bench before him, as if she lifted her skirts and scooted to sit regularly.

 

“There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy,” Sandor grunts, and Sansa tries not to roll her eyes.

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“That’s my fucking business,” he glares, fixing her stare.

 

Sansa settles for leveling her face precisely to his, not breaking for a moment.

 

“Used to be you couldn’t look at me,” he continues, waiting for her to shuffle back to sulk at Jon’s agitating queen once more.

 

“That was a long time ago,” she replies, unperturbed. “I’ve seen much worse than you since then. I’ve _seen_ you since then,” Sansa adds with a soft, small smile. Sandor blows past it.

 

“Yes, I’ve heard. Heard you were broken in. Heard you were broken in rough.” Sandor regrets it the moment it’s out of his mouth, the repetition an attempt to will her into seeing that he understood agony and had been clever in escaping, too.

 

 _Heard things you’d never have suffered in my arms,_ he swats the words away like they’re smoke and drinks. He’s weak when he’s trying to drink his thoughts down to a dull roar, and wherever he gives way, she takes his ground. 

 

Sansa just looks at him, implacable and composed, watching his face.

 

“And he got what he deserved. I gave it to him,” she says, proud.

 

“How?” he looks up, surprised, meeting her eyes.

 

“Hounds,” Sansa sounds like she savors it. She draws the vowels out a bit too long, her eyes lid a bit too much, and his heart stills before he huffs a laugh. They exchange subdued smiles for a moment.

 

“You’ve changed, little bird.” Sandor’s heart is kicking around in circles in his chest, aching to not read into the way she _liked it_ like he told her she would, each time she was horrified by his viciousness with the Kingsguard. He’d only ever wanted to frighten her off of relating to him, to keep her at a much greater distance than this, and here she rolled the method she’d chosen around in her mouth like a shard of melting ice.

 

Sansa digests his comment solemnly, face immovable. Like Ned, she’d learned that waiting often revealed more than inquiring. When Sandor started to speak again unprompted, she channeled her smile into the slightest wrinkle near her eyes.

 

“None of it would have happened if you came North with me. No Littlefinger, no Ramsay, none of it.” There’s bitterness there, and a greater measure of regret.

 

Sansa gave him a measured pause, her capacity for queenly iciness apparent now at the edges of her eyes.

 

Casually, as if it’s familiar to them both, she tucks her hand over top of his, stroking his knuckles. Her hand is warm and urgent, and the roughness of his calloused, huge hand under hers send respective shocks through them. She gazes at him, inscrutable.

 

 _I should have sung us out of the gates,_ Sansa thinks, wondering who she’d be if they’d fled together, tempered by truths that still blared too loudly when she settled into stillness at night. 

 

“It did happen. All of it. Every moment,” Sansa starts, “Do you know how often I thought of how different it would have been for me? And, I realize—if you had come North with me, you wouldn’t have protected my sister.”

 

She’d suffer it all again, and the ferocious love amongst these siblings is foreign to him, but he understands her conviction.

 

Sandor’s eyes are wide, and after dumbly connecting the fact of her contact with the sensations it sparked, his eyes flash up to hers.

 

Sansa reaches for the flagon of wine between them and refills both their glasses one-handed, ignoring Sandor’s astonished expression.

 

 _Are we just to drink, now, together?_ he thinks, accepting the pour and tapping his cup against hers, agog.

 

Sansa appears quite at ease as he examines her gorgeous face, tossed with shadows of revelers against the roaring hearth nearby. She drinks for an extensive sip of time, and her eyes refocus precisely on his as she lowers her cup. Sandor, caught dumb, gets his vessel to his face in a weak attempt to cover his gawking. His other hand is frozen like prey trying to avoid notice even though it was already within a predator’s claws.

 

“Do you remember telling me what the sweetest thing is?” Sansa goes right in, as if they’re alone. For all he’s aware of they may as well be.

 

“I remember stopping you from pitching your first hateful husband off a battlement, little bird,” Sandor counters, careful. They’d never so much as acknowledged the moment and here she perched, impeccable braids and silks she looked at home in, thumb stilled on his broad fingers.

 

“It was my third’s gravest misfortune to have not had the benefit of your keen eyes, I suppose,” Sansa says, and leaning forward a bit more conspiratorially, shifting more pressure to his hand beneath hers, she whispers, “I did, finally, feel you there with me. It was possibly the first flash of summer in my heart once I returned to Winterfell, before Jon liberated us once more.” She doesn’t make eye contact as she leans over and speaks to him with her eyes darting about the hall.

 

Sandor takes a noticeable breath. He nods and furrows his brow.

 

Sansa wants to spill all forth, take solace in the only person who could understand *and* wouldn’t belittle her for the confession. Eyes deftly identifying the ears about her, Sansa closes her mouth before beginning.

 

“I’d do well to leave my people to their celebrations,” Sansa fidgets with her chain ornament, and Sandor’s heart drops, just an inch, before rising perilously fast to his throat.

 

“Company would not go amiss, but I wouldn’t begrudge you the rest of that cup.”

 

Rising, she adds, “Your stride can more than make up my time; I leave it to you.” Her teeth catch her lip as she stands, not really bold enough to mean it how he wants to take it, more a nervous thing, but proud enough to keep his eyes, so the impact is all the same.

 

Looking sure before she turns and makes a face at herself, Sansa makes her leave with intention such that she is not accosted by a single courtier. She hadn’t meant to go right in, but here they were.She fidgets with the chain and pulls it off, feeling bare under his eyes no matter the raiments. She never learned to pretend for him, and he seemed to treasure it.

 

Sandor, meanwhile, chuckles that she felt compelled to differentiate herself from an impatient serving girl who foolishly interrupted his descent into oblivion. Sitting back, he lets himself take in his surroundings for the first time in a few hours, a little drunk and absolutely certain he’d imagined her. Davos and Tyrion are sharing an intense, heavy-browed conversation and putting a good deal of work into leaning over the table—probably not quite fit to stand. Jaime Lannister whips past him in a flurry of indignant grey-gold moodiness, and Sandor briefly muses that Brienne must be at the root of it.

 

He sees that Tormund has managed to acquire another serving lass on his way out of the hall—possibly the one he offered Sandor—and is pleased for the briefest flash that he saved the annoying ginger.

 

Run out of concerning parties to catalogue, Sandor could move to the many Northern suitors acting like valiant cunts for Sansa to even blink in their direction. Some were quite pretty, some even formidable, but he hadn’t seen her dignify a single one, unless secondlong, precise refusals counted. He chose not to focus on them.

 

 _I’m not actually sitting here_ laughing _at the way Sansa Stark propositioned me,_ he thinks, disappointed to find the end of this flagon’s generosity drift like silt to the bottom of his cup when he upended it.

 

_Fuck._

 

 _…can’t drink or scare this decision away._ His thoughts are sloshing all together even though he’s only three cups down—Sansa had found him early.

 

Everyone familiar to him seems to have fled the hall for warm beds as the room receded into Northerly raucousness, almost like they sensed the Southron retreat.

 

Sandor drains the cup, slams it down, and scarcely needs to shoulder past anyone to find himself in the hall, turning sharply towards the baths to scrub his hands and unlatch his armor alone. Everyone else had been so delirious after battle that, with a quick enough squire, most were out of their armor and directly into the feasting hall with a giddy dash through the chilled courtyard. Sandor was one of the party who trudged to it in bloodied armor with sweat cooling.

 

 _Don’t bring in the mud with you,_ he thinks, pleased the instinct to present himself presentably hadn’t fled in his sloshing fear. He scrubs his hands, tries to taste less of the wine, and holds his breath underwater for a silent, peaceful moment.

 

_Perhaps it is just company she’s after. Plenty of pretty lords with good Northern blood making fools of themselves at her._

 

Sandor feels more sober once he’s fully dressed, nervous and aware of the inconvenience of his aversion to mirrors for one acute moment of his life.

 

He propels himself down the hallway at a purposeful speed, and Sandor’s knuckles impact the door just twice before Sansa calls him in.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> it's that chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> unbeta'd so call me TF out where there are typos, inconsistencies, and shitty HTML <3

Sansa is seated quietly near the embers of a fire in the hearth and she jolts when Sandor’s knock pierces the silence, half ready as she was to abandon her hope, add another log, and call for her serving girl.

”Come in, then,” she calls, pulling more ale into her mouth, ever graceful and suddenly conscious of how she’s sitting, what she’s doing with her hands. She already dressed in a respectable shift and robe, braiding and unbraiding her hair in alternation for some time. 

His arrival in her doorframe feels just like finding his silhouette in her rooms at the Blackwater, and her mouth is parted. 

He’s got his wits enough about him to get himself swiftly inside the threshold but stands there a bit useless, fist nearly going to the hip where his sword would usually be for him to fidget with.

“Bar the door, would you?” Sansa has risen and pours a second flagon of ale, holding it out to him.

Sandor wordlessly complies with her offer, and comes closer to accept it like he can only permit getting closer to her, and the fire, for the offered treat. 

“You know, I’m not going to murder—“ Sansa begins jovially. 

“I didn’t mean that you’d been broken,” he starts, and their words collide midair. 

Sansa closes her mouth and narrows her eyes a moment. Sandor shuts up. 

“You’re coarse,” Sansa comments, and before he can confirm it with some surly retort, “and I missed you every day.” Sansa gestures for them to sit together on a long bench averted from the fire. Some of her taste in furnishings were still remarkably lush and capital-L Lady-like, and Sandor’s mouth twitched into a smile at her _everything_ as he settled in next to her.

“Thinking of you kept me alive, some nights, and I know where you think you’ll go next,” she continues.

“It’s where I will go, lass, be sure of that,” he replies, softer than she expected, smile fading.

“I’d not deny you it,” she says with clear comprehension. “But I’d offer you a choice, and a place. I’ve been without those things before, too.” 

Sandor gives a cruel scoff and averts his eyes from her. He thinks for a moment of the snapping jaws of the dead, set on all of them just hours earlier. How easily one could have torn into the stunning woman perched before him. 

“And I’m no lass,” she adds, stern.

“What choice, then? Who’s left you can’t kill with hounds?” he prods indirectly at her need for him, for asking him here, and she blushes with a soft pride that he respects. The wolf can dispatch her own enemies. This could be something more, if he let it.

Sansa rises, her cup empty and placed aside. Moving until she’s close enough to be between his wide knees, she smiles down at him. 

“I don’t want for another sword,” Sansa says, “though if it please you to join my guard, I’d want you.” Furrowing her eyebrows in a way that’s impossibly pretty, she quickly adds, “Or just a place in Winterfell, no vows and such.”

Sandor leans back, open to her and does something like bow his head, a little submissively. He smiles up at her, trying not to place his world’s center meridian along the three words _I’d want you._

“I just want some fucking closure,” he admits, not snarling, and not answering her question. 

“What if there’s more than that? After that.” Sansa tries. 

“Not for me, little bird,” Sandor replies, bitterly repeating it like the mantra his insistence on revenge had been for years. 

“Why’d you come, then?” Sansa speaks as skillfully as he wields steel, and he was unprepared as ever for her. “I don’t think I was unclear, but if it needs saying, I don’t just want you once in battle-heat,” she blushes, because she certainly wants that right now, continuing, “I didn’t risk myself to kill Ramsay. Not because I wasn’t craving death a bit, I was, but I’d have been missed.” 

Sandor looks away, searching for something to say. A clue somewhere in the woodwork of the ceiling, anything but confronting his doubt with the eradicating force of her certainty. His reasons were his own, he’d always said. He’d never thought about what they were, not really, certainly not sober. He takes a healthy gulp of the Northern ale, realizing he’s developing a taste for it for all his grousing about a lack of sour Dornish red up here. 

Sansa rolls her eyes, feeling a small coal of affection crackle and burst inside her at his attempt to dissolve into the walls of Winterfell to avoid confronting himself. 

“Don’t do that,” Sansa pronounces, finishing off her ale. It’s cold, and Northern, and the scent does a great many memories tremendous service. She will realize, later, that it’s the first time she spent alone with a man since her marriages, and she feels completely tensionless with him. _He’s_ certainly stressed, though, she notes. 

He’s devotedly gazing at the intersection of ceiling notches when he feels the air shift and she’s _much_ closer to him suddenly. She takes his jaw in her right hand, much like he did when scaring her at King’s Landing. He got the impression the reciprocity was quite intentional, but he waits for her to speak, and she just looks instead.

Sandor’s brow furrows as he looks at Sansa, a little uncomfortable at his position below her. His eyes are flashing with the intensity of impending action like there’s still green wildfire reflected in them. As she’s remembering, truly _remembering_ the night of the Blackwater and his eyes then, he’s wondering when he’d ever become shy of women. He’d never had to do this bit before. The talking. 

_Because you had those girls over barrels and desks, and this is the little bird grown, you dumbfuck,_ he thinks.

Sansa brushes her thumb over his lower lip and gently nudges him upward with her best effort at a grip on him. It’s the same way he imagines he’d handle a spooked animal, but it doesn’t bother him for long enough once he’s on his feet, pulling her up with him. 

Sandor stops trying to get answers from her words and seeks them with his mouth on hers.

He’s so slow about this, patient and yielding and, _not timid,_ Sansa thinks, _but almost shy_. Sandor moves his right hand down to cradle her jaw, gentler than she had him, and Sansa sighs into his mouth, such an intimate thing. They kiss patiently, unhurried and the only strain is to compensate for the difference of height. Sansa gradually pulls more and more of his tongue into her mouth, sighing in relief when he surges forward, devouring her a little more than he’d meant to. 

They part, panting, and Sansa carefully strokes his jaw, eliciting a sharp tilt of the head and a shiver through him, like he hasn’t been touched that softly and needs to learn the sensation. 

If he had a word for love he’d know that’s what it was with her, but sticking to what comes naturally, he instead tries not to think about how much he wanted to fuck her until her eyes roll back and she screams for him. 

Sandor makes a soft sound he can’t control at the thought and Sansa’s whole spine goes straight before she strains to replace her thumb with her mouth on his neck. Realizing she can’t reach that stretch of his neck from her height, she pushes on his chest until he’s seated again.

He moves obediently at her touch, and she feels a spark of power she would have to investigate with her head less abuzz. 

“May I?” Sansa gestures, one knee already settled next to his hip, but polite to a fault as she makes to straddle him, restricted in her motion a little by her shift. Sansa giggles, taking in his confused expression. He’d not exactly had a lady, in dresses fit for maids to don and doff, attempt to sit on his lap. He’d been forced to stand by during enough of Cersei’s elaborate dressing routines whilst she shrieked in all directions—focusing on the minutia of courtly dress had been a safe distraction. Even in just a shift and robe, Sansa’s attire was no less overwhelming, now that he was confronted with figuring out how to get them off of her. 

Sandor’s hands at her waist, she wriggles in his grasp and probes, “Would you be terribly put out to get us to the bed? I didn’t exactly tell my maid my plans,” she urges, a small smile tugging up one corner of her mouth. 

He pauses, kisses her once more almost as if he hadn’t heard her, and effortlessly rises with her safely in his arms, making his way through her chambers wordlessly.

“Your heart feels like a hummingbird’s,” Sansa comments as she regains her feet near the bed, hand on his chest. She strikes a stone to begin illuminating a minimal cluster of candles, observing the way he shifts away, probably without realizing he’s doing it. She’d gone through a good deal of care to rearrange her rooms in the days after she’d savored ending Ramsay, and the bed was plush and fur-piled exactly to her liking. She frankly hoarded pedestals for candles near her bed, preferring to rest as they burned down, bolted door illuminated for her to confirm as much as she pleased. Tonight she limits the flames to a small corner, security fading from her priorities with all his imposing stature at her command. 

Sansa spins back to him, and watches his face examine hers, open and looking for anything that might send him fleeing. Or her. 

“Sansa,” Sandor starts, low in his throat.

She presses towards him for a kiss he gladly grants, pulling her close but freezing once he isn’t sure where else to put his hands. The whole occasion has her taking in his face hungrily, lingering as long as she likes. She had to be ever aware of her comportment when in public, which would otherwise be the ideal time to study him training in the yard or awkwardly adjusting to the brusque social nuances of the North. 

Leaning back in his arms to look at him, she disperses kisses over every bit of his face, drawing back to watch him. 

“You’re almost looking Northern,” she comments, pulling at the beard he hadn’t really had the time to tame. 

“Sansa,” Sandor repeats, a different timbre to his voice as he bravely counters her stare. She’s completely stunning, and better men than him would have thrown her on her back by now. 

“Please, touch me, let me show you…” Sansa murmurs, kissing knuckles in a captured hand, wanting to drag him back in for a kiss when he untangles himself quickly. 

With a little smirk, she realizes his hands have only gone to the hem of his shirt, pulling it off and over. For all his insecurity around his scars, the lifelong fighter isn’t shy of his body. This much ale in her, Sansa’s not shy of her appreciation. 

“Gods,” Sansa breathes, abjectly delighted by him. She drags her eyes down over ropes of muscle and dark hair. Faster than he could have anticipated, she greedily reaches for his breeches, tugging him towards the bed with her. 

“For all the looking I’d like to do, I need to feel you,” she informs him, mouth hot over his ear. 

Sansa moves back to his mouth, capturing his face again in her hands, sending sparks of something that feels incredible down one cheekbone and fizzling pops of absence down the other with her delicate hands. The collision takes him to an entirely green field in his mind, transcending quite a lot to get there, and he bucks his hips, wanting to move his hands to hers but not daring to startle her in any way. 

When they break, almost shy of enough air once more, Sansa smiles, her chest rising and falling quickly. 

Sandor doesn’t return it, backing her against the bed and growling, “Come here,” punctuating it with another kiss, “little bird.” 

Sansa unties her pretty robe with its neat embroidery and tosses it to one side, tilting her head to one side. 

“Sit,” she asks, and he does, capturing her wrists on the way down to drag her with him. Sansa’s shift rucks up around her mid-thighs, and Sandor watches it with needy interest. He moves his fingertips to the hem of her shift, worrying the edge without looking into her eyes. She has to ask for this again and again; there’s no other way. Hearing her request wasn’t the same as believing it, not yet. 

Sandor falls into her and forgets his hesitation when her quick fingers pull the laces of his breeches through in seconds, holding herself up with evidently strong thighs. He aches when her leg muscles twitch under his hands, not least because she’s so entirely _warm_. The ends of her freed hair brush his chest, and he’s completely unguarded.

She’s buried her hands neatly in his hair now, surging up above him to kiss him, presumably from every angle she can think of. Sandor actually whines when she pushes herself down against him, her thighs brushing the outside of his breeches, impossible heat jolting him into reality and his hands springing to her. Sandor returns her kiss with borderline vulgar enthusiasm, and Sansa grinds against him for it. Whatever he may have hoped this night would be like, it couldn’t match insistent, impatient, desirous Sansa beneath his hands kissing him dizzy.

Sandor squeezes his eyes shut when he realizes how _hot_ she feels in his lap, gasping when her mouth closes around the bit of his neck she’d been stroking. His cock is rock hard and there is absolutely no chance of her not noticing it now. Sansa is perched primly over it, her hips a good deal stronger than he would’ve thought of a lady who doesn’t often sit a horse.

“You said you know what you want. Tell me,” Sandor kisses along her chest through the fabric, sliding lower to find the hem of her nightdress and lift it higher, keeping his other hand atop her leg, watching her. He hopes it doesn’t sound too much like he’s out of his depth. 

“Sandor,” Sansa sits up straight and he doesn’t budge from his place between her legs. 

“Please, like this,” she jerks her head towards the pillows, pulling him back to cover her body. They settle with him supporting himself on his left forearm, the right hand drifting lower, guided by her delicate fingers. She holds his gaze, and he refuses to break it, even discovering that she’s wet like a fucking flood with the softest brush of his fingers. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he quickly sucks his own fingers into it before returning to spread her apart. Sansa watches him with hooded eyes and a reddened mouth. Sandor’s dimly glad he stopped to wash his grimy battle-worn hands before daring to burst into a lady’s bedchamber. 

“This?” he’s somehow able to stroke her hair while holding himself up and dipping his first finger inside of her. Sansa almost snarls at it, bearing down hard even as he slips in a second. Setting a careful, gentle rhythm paced with her moans more than any sort of instinct, he tries to calm his heart as every expression of pleasure that passes her face is all there for him, because of him. 

Sansa tosses her head to the side lazily, pressing her hips up against his palm, laying her reactions completely bare to him. 

“More,” she sighs, ever softly. Her mouth is so perfectly distracting, more alluring for the bruising kisses he’s given her, that he forgets to really hear as she says it.

In her ear he rumbles, “More?” 

“Yes, yes,” Sansa asks, softly but audibly. Slipping a third thick, callused finger inside of her, Sandor thinks he should really make her bite down on something for all the wailing she’s making. Decapitation at the end of Brienne’s blade would be perfectly welcome any time _after_ this was over. 

“I’ve, not this much, not ever,” Sansa pants, flushed and pupils blown dark. Her hips are squirming in reply to the feel of it.

“Anything you want,” he promises her, unceasing. 

“You, I want you,” Sansa pleads, striking eyes bright and shamelessly on his as she fumbles for his hips, pushing down his breeches.

“I can’t hurt you, Sansa,” Sandor stalls, not unreasonably cautious. Most women were proportionately tiny by comparison—Sansa is tall but not what he’d assess as particularly sturdy. Luckily her stubbornness could allay those fears. 

“I agree. Now come, unh, come here,” Sansa manages despite the curl of his fingers inside of her. She writhes down on them, and his stomach somersaults, cock jumping. 

Sandor’s acutely conscious of his frame above her, and when she rises to push him to his back, he’s relieved.

Sansa snatches one of his wrists impatiently, placing his hand on her nightgown with purpose. For his part, Sandor slips his broad palms over both legs, sliding the fabric up collaterally, reaching her hips and breasts before helping Sansa work her hair through it. 

He’s trying to breathe normally with her sprawled across his hips, skin luminous above him even webbed with scars across her abdomen, flame-red hair falling about her waist. Words won’t come for him, so he seizes her, pushing himself up against the pillows.

He kisses _I’m yours_ to her as best he can, too incapable of revealing that even with them like this. 

She’s enjoying the teasing feel of him just outside her, but she’s heard bawdy women boast tales of wartime beddings and wants to know for herself. Know what it is when it’s good. 

Sansa moves her open mouth over his uninjured ear, not wanting to hurt him if it was even slightly possible, and begs for more of his hands, his fingers.

He’s not experienced with this, never needed to be, and continues to take his guidance from Sansa’s hips, and the sound of her soft moans. Moving with her feels fluent already, and possessed of the need to taste her, he slips below her, urging her hips over him with broad hands. Sansa grips the headboard over him, feeling exposed, and squeezes her eyes shut when his tongue presses flat against her. His fingers graze the back of her thigh and trail down until he can enter her again, keeping rhythm with his mouth and spreading her with two fingers. He’s never heard sounds like the ones she makes at this and freezes, lifting her above him and asking, “More?”

Sansa nods urgently but can’t articulate the pleasure of him moving her so easily, one hand curled around her hips, his tongue lapping at her. She’s squirming with desire now and can only dig her fingers into his hair and tug. In seconds she’s grinding against his mouth and crying out as she comes for him with two fingers buried deep within her, and he doesn’t lose rhythm as she feels each wave. She does lose balance, though, and he’s right there to catch her, pulling her back into his lap and smoothing her hair back. Taking him in with lidded eyes, Sansa kisses him, her hands in his hair, and knocks her hips against his. 

Sandor has been patient, and her soft urging is all he needs. He’s submerged in her entirely, surrounded. Not breaking their kiss, he lines his cock up to her and holds her hips aloft, allowing her to sink down at her own pace. 

When she bucks her hips and takes him in one thrust, he cries out. Sansa moves slowly at first, taking in Sandor’s enraptured expression, emboldened by it. His hands are frozen on her, and she can tell he’s giving her complete control, total power. He isn’t breathing. She starts to ride him, sounding surprised at the pleasure it gives _her_ , and she moans his name. 

Sandor cries out, the feeling exhilarating until he feels his cockhead barely at her entrance. 

Sansa’s palms go to his shoulders, upright and nudging his cock with her warm core. He hisses and leans back, Sansa seizing a chance to mouth at his neck while she teases him, to discover if he likes this as much as she does. 

He does, and his fingertips dig into her hips, trying desperately not to come at the mere idea of Winterfell’s red wolf in his lap, heedless of the trailing hungry stares of scores of Northern lordly suitors. 

They were both warm with ale and celebration and the relief of acceptance, the real pleasure of absolution, and they smiled lazily at one another. Despite the urgent press of him so close, Sansa leans down and kisses him languidly, moving his hands where she wanted to feel them on her body. Were she a whore, he’d take her right now, fast and hard, and spend himself shortly having moved her underneath him. Sandor nips at her earlobe as soft as he can manage instead.

Sandor feels the heels of her hands against his shoulders as she guides herself down again, voice cracking mid-moan as she adjusts to him. Wrapped in his arms as she is, Sansa just moans until she’s taken him all again, oblivious that he’s nearly bitten through his lip already in order to not to come. 

“Move, show me how,” Sansa presses, expectant. 

Sandor laughs and lowers his eyes to their bodies joined, feeling as if he’d looked over the edge of a battlement too quickly and lost his sense of balance. He moves, though, seizing her hips and guiding her gently from base to tip, beginning to sweat with the effort, watching and listening to and kissing Sansa, consumed. 

Suddenly the pressure on his shoulders increases and his thrusts are met with hers, match for match. His head falls back as he learns the sensation of being fucked reciprocally. He immediately craves it, settling back against the headboard to allow her full agency. Sansa’s palms slip down to attempt to enclose his wrists, which they do ever so lightly. 

He wants to see and feel every part of her, and he pulls back to look at her, running a thumb over her lips as he does. She wriggles into his touch when he holds her jaw like this, cupping her whole face. Sansa must be sensitive there, and he flutters his fingertips to find the places she likes best while he explores her. Sandor adjusts back against the bedframe, partially to steady himself and keep from ruining this with his impatience and total lust, but mostly to place Sansa astride his hips, totally in control, absolutely beautiful. 

Sandor is praying, for the first time in his life, to any god, old or new, that can save him from spilling before she’s discovered everything she wants. The smooth, tight slip of her again and again draws him so close, so he pulls her to him, foreheads bumping together, and helps set a less terminal pace with his arms around her body. She’s silken skin against his raw, half-healed new layer of scars. He moves one hand to pull her leg up around his waist while she’s still in his lap, changing the angle of it. Sansa understands and throws her other leg around his waist, seated in his lap where they can rock slowly together. Discovering this, joining like this, only shallow thrusts marking how deep he was within her, they kiss more, tongues shyly learning each other, and Sansa peaks again this way, small half-moon indentations on his wrists from her grip. 

The final time, she’s teary-eyed with effort, and leans her head into Sandor’s grasp, nuzzling him for the sensation of his fingers against her jaw. Sandor isn’t at all prepared when she quickly sucks his thumb into her mouth, blue eyes searing into his, becoming limp against him after she’s orgasmed for the last time. He comes deep inside of her, the feeling of her pulling him into her body with her climax too much to stand, his mind too hazy with adoration to pull out in any timely way. He shakes with the effort of it, aftershocks making him tremble endlessly in her arms. 

When he returns to her, she smiles lazily and rolls off of him, tucking herself fiercely into his side. Her head rests against his heart and she finds his fingers to weave with her own. Just as he’s experiencing that necessary exchange of a clearer mind where orgasmic bliss just was, he starts to recognize that _he’s just fucked Sansa Stark_ and much worse, he’s spent himself inside of her. It quickens his breath, and Sansa props herself up on an elbow to narrow her eyes at him. 

She traces his jaw, openly and comfortably admiring him unhindered by his defenses or anyone else’s gaze. 

“Sansa,” Sandor starts, “I shouldn’t have—“

“Shh. Even in the barren North we know of moon tea. Don’t fuss,” Sansa says it like she practiced it. The circumstances of her return to Winterfell left her practical about suitors and men and monsters; nobody would be so foolish as to conceive with a woman they half-expected to be carrying Ramsay’s hideous heir. 

Sandor catches her hand and pulls it against his mouth, kissing her pale, sensitive wrists. 

“Should it quicken, I could certainly bear a good man’s heir and hold my head high in it—“ Sansa continues, this part not prepared, this part far too close to asking what she wants of him. 

Sandor’s laugh surprises her, but it comes with an easy smile she’s only glimpsed infrequently. Sansa feels a flare of territorial concern—did anyone else give him that? Cause that look? 

“What?” Sansa demands, eyes still narrowed. She looks dangerously keen, more wolflike than ever. 

Sandor drags a hand over his face, still grinning. 

“Can you imagine? Your lords’d line up to take their best swings at me,” he rumbles. Sansa takes in his words, distracted by how fucking great the sound of him murmuring to her in bed feels. He’s resonant and warm and Sansa understands a few things, now, that she thought were fairy fabrications before. She thinks she could end her long days like this, finding him in her chambers each night and hearing his counsel whispered into her hair, skin to skin under the furs. 

“Not if I made you lord consort, they couldn’t,” Sansa spills, realizing it was not so casual a thing as the tone she’d used to say it. 

Sandor’s eyes are wide, but he defaults to his usual brusqueness out of panic. 

“Hell of a bride price for just once,” he grouses. It would have been more effectively grouse-y if he wasn’t tracing the gorgeous arch of her lower spine with a broad palm. He didn’t know where the instinct even came from. Sansa made him unsure but unafraid. It was utterly unnatural as the living dead snapping at him. 

“Perhaps you’ll stay long enough to argue about it,” Sansa suggests, burrowing down against him once more, mostly to hide from his reply, just a bit to disguise her own bald hope. 

Sandor doesn’t reply, can’t, really; so he secures his arms around Sansa, accommodating as she fussily adjusts to her exact comfort. She feels so good he can’t object to the pointed elbows and knees of the process, kissing the top of her head and fixing his eyes on another wooden ceiling notch to aid the emotional divination he needed to perform before sleep could settle over him.


End file.
